she writes on sundays

I met shame in 6th grade

January 10th, 2016

My roommate has a now infamous grad teaching she did in Spain. –well, infamous in the yellow house.

She talked about decisions, not having a bad day, living above the fog.

When I feel like a bad human, I give it a relisten. When I am leaning less on my ice cold brain and more on my ping-ponging red hot heart. It doesn’t happen a lot these days. It’s actually harder for me now to give grace to my emotions then ever before.

I stop my emotional output more often then not because I choose to believe that I am not ruled by how I feel and others should not have to deal with that.

I thought I was a horrible human last week. I was tired, grumpy, lazy. All the things. I couldn’t look at God. So, in church today hike everyone around me was singing the words “your praise will ever be on my lips”, shame came.

It overwhelmed me.

I’m one of the first to speak shame off of someone, it’s like I have a tiny shame alarm that pings when someone is speaking shame over themselves. I actually never thought I dealt with shame as a big theme. A lot of other heavy, messy words–but not shame.

I’m reading “Scary Close” right now. It’s shocking to me how many statements hit home. But, it was the brief chapter on shame that nestled into my being to be saved for later.
Like I said, I felt like a horrible human last week. I broke down twice- once in my bosses office and then with my roommate. And on Saturday I had a grumpy hangover–this feeling where all the joy has been taken out of your world and you no longer no how to exist in said world (no drinking involved). I was beating myself up about my lack of humanness. I couldn’t even sit with myself.

Then I read the chapter on shame.

Donald Miller talked about doing an exercise in which he pinpointed the moment shame stepped into his life and oddly enough I thought his moment might be similar to mine. But no heart-tug, nothing jumped out at me. But I didn’t go any deeper. I shut the book and moved on to Netflix.

So, when shame walked in this morning and weaseled his way next to me, it shocked me that all of a sudden I remembered where he came from.

I was in sixth grade when shame sauntered into my life.

Sixth grade was the year the girls got mean.

I remember this specific morning that I got to school and plopped my backpack down by my class and walked over to the middle of the yard to find my friends.

I looked all around for them. In the corner of the play hard I saw a wall of kids all standing in a line and looking forward laughing and avoiding eye contact with me. I would come to find out they were doing that to hide all the girls I was looking for. They were crouched down and hiding from me. They were giggling and laughing.

They didn’t want me to see them.

All the reasons flooded into my being. I talked funny, I was too fat, I wasn’t enough.

I was too much. I didn’t cry, I just laughed it off and walked away, tears bringing at my eyes.

I made a new friend that day: shame.

He now wheedles his way into a lot of places.
When I feel not enough, or too much, or like I am being too sensitive.

Last week I felt all those things. Felt like a failure. Inadequate, not enough.

Left behind.

And because of that, shame snuck into my house over the last 5 days. He took out his paint and painted the walls a disgusting green.

So all the things, the words, the actions, all the everything that I felt I was doing to counteract the bad days got colored in shame.

The emotions, the venting, the deep breaths were now ways I was communicating to myself I was not enough. That I was inadequate.

So now, I am sitting here with all these thoughts and realizations and have no clue what to do with them. I have no way to tie up this blog in a neat package.

And that’s ok.

I’m not going to dwell on the not knowing and I’m going to (try) not to beat myself up.

And I’m going to remember that I am a good human even when I have what seems like 100 reasons that I’m not.

Because it changes things, when you realize how shame first walked in the door.
A letter to creatives

January 6th, 2016

To my dear creatives,

I know you are probably sitting in front of a blank slate right now.

I know you believe with every passing moment that words don’t form in a sentence or you aren’t able to mix colors just right on a pallet or your cake falls flat for the third time that you are no longer creative. That something inside you isn’t working right anymore.

And I know that the shame piles on from there.

Man, does it hit you like a wrecking ball. Each time you say you are going to do this or that and come up empty. Each day you set aside time to practice or write or sculpt or cook and you end up cleaning the house or reorganizing your coffee cup collections for the fifth time.

You don’t know how to sit with yourself and not feel the shame pile on, not feel the guilt or the all of the “I told you so..” about your creativity.

And I know you probably feel if you have to call the creativity out of yourself that something in that isn’t natural.

But sometimes, my friend, we have to call out to our creative spirit. We have to yell at it and tell it that it needs to come to the table and do some work. We have to remind it that there are nuggets and truth and whimsy below the surface and sometimes we can’t wait for it to just be there, sometimes we have to ask it to show up.

So, my dear creative friend, to you, I say first: shame off. You are no less on the days when you feel incapable of creating then in the days when you write the great American novel.

And second, on days where you feel the furthest from the creative that you are take a deep breath and choose to call the creativity out of yourself.

Tonight, amidst yawns and back pain and exhaustion that’s what I needed. I chose to, in any way shape or form, find a way to put words on a page and realize that the shame creeping in wasn’t mine to grab onto.

So third, please remember this:
You don’t have to always create be a creative.

You are creative because it’s who you are, not what you do.

It’s in you, down to your tiptoes and it pours out of your finger tips.

You are still creative even when you feel incapable of creating.

With love,

A writer who doesn’t always feel like a writer but knows forever she will be a writer.
2015: I didn’t need a passport.

December 31st, 2015

On the last day of the year I always write and post a blog about the year. It’s not as much for people to read as it is for myself to look back on and see where I’ve come from.
2015 was a doozy people. It was only the second year out of the last 5 that I haven’t internationally traveled. It was the 3rd out of the last four that I have flown to Georgia. It was the third out of the last four that I’ve spent time in Kingsburg. And it was the second year in a row I split my time between two very different places. 6 months in Kingsburg and 6 in Bellingham. And man, were both times full of all the things. Today as I was walking home (practically in tears mind you from exhaustion), I was pondering what I’ve learned the most, what has sunk the deepest into my being and I was honestly surprised at the words that popped into my head.

Tribe. Hometeam. Covenant.

I learned about all of those things in 2014. I sat in classes that taught about covenant, learned what it meant to be apart of a tribe and then had to leave all of those people.

2015 started with going back to a lot of physical places and officially saying goodbye and letting go. The one that hit the strongest was saying goodbye and letting go of Orange County. That was hard. It wrecked me to see how far I’d grown away from that place.

And then I came back to Kingsburg. And actually it held a lot of loveliness and a lot of healing. The second prior to Spain had been the worst period of time I had ever had in Kingsburg. And the time from February to July was restoring in ways I never though possible.

And then there was Bellingham.

Egads. Getting on the plane in Fresno to go to Seattle was one of the most terrifying plane rides to date (And probably the shortest). And then I was in Washington and in a car with my friend Patrick whom I’d never met traveling to a city I’d never been to, to a house I was already renting.

To stay. To build. To dream.

I’ve been in Bellingham for (almost) six months now. Working, living life with all the people around me, freezing in the tundra that is western Washington.

And I want to say that I love it, that it’s the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.

But I can’t. I cannot say that all these decisions are the best I’ve ever made, because honestly that might not be 100% true.

It’s been hard, I’ve felt disconnect and comparison and like less of myself then I have ever been. I work a job I rarely feel qualified for and I, at least once a week, question whether I actually hear God’s voice because I am surrounded by powerful people.

I cry more then I ever have (I mean, I am crying right now).

And that brings me back to:

Tribe. Hometeam. Covenant.

Without having those pieces, those people I wouldn’t be able to do life through this year.

Because of tribe, I made the decision to have a plan for this year.

Because of covenant I stuck to it.

And because of my hometeam I get through the days where I feel inadequate, feel less than, when I feel not enough.

“Here’s another way to put it: You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world. God is not a secret to be kept. We’re going public with this, as public as a city on a hill. If I make you light-bearers, you don’t think I’m going to hide you under a bucket, do you? I’m putting you on a light stand. Now that I’ve put you there on a hilltop, on a light stand—shine! Keep open house; be generous with your lives. By opening up to others, you’ll prompt people to open up with God, this generous Father in heaven.” {Matthew 5:14-16 the message}

So here is to 2016.
A year full of tribe and hometeam and covenant.

A year of new dreams and plans and visions.

A year of more space for all the things.
the Recipe Series: Grandma Sue’s shrimp cocktail

December 25th, 2015

1lb of baby shrimp

1lb of imitation crab

2 bottles of del monte ketchup

1/3rd cup water in each ketchup bottle shaken to get all the excess out.

Heaping Tablespoon chili powder

Tablespoon horseradish

2.5 cups minced celery

Bunch of green onions (tops and bottoms)

Juice of one lemon

All of my life every single holiday was about the food. My mom’s side of the family is full of cooks and bakers and candy makers. And while, my hands down favorite family holiday meal was and still is Christmas morning breakfast; there is one staple that needs to be at every holiday was Christmas to Thanksgiving to Fourth of July:

My grandma Sue’s shrimp cocktail.

She made it every year, for every holiday and served it in a gigantic glass jar that she had from who knows when and then we would eat it in Dixie cups with tiny little shrimp forks and bowls and bowls of ritz crackers (always name brand ritz never generic).

Growing up I didn’t think we were a family that had traditions.

But now, as this is the second Christmas in a row that I haven’t curled up on the puzzle piece couch sipping my coffee as us adults clammer for breakfast first and the kids want presents, I see that we are indeed, a family with traditions.

Someone always forgets the salsa for the tamales and when my grandma was alive she would pull out a half used container of old salsa, my father always shaves his beard after we eat breakfast, there is at least one prep heavy dish that someone walks through the door with not made an hour before dinner. My mother always supplies socks for all my male cousins. My Aunt Ann usually gives me a gift that makes me cry. My aunt Sue brings all of my favorite Christmas cookies. My Aunt Marie always makes sure we have trader joes chocolate milk. And aunt Marie would also make sure everyone got out on the front porch for a picture even with all the complaining.

Christmas in the big blue house on 21rst was a magical homey event even with stress and drama and everything that comes with a big family holiday.

My grandma didn’t give the recipe to my mom until about 2009. She then, watched her make it for three years to see if she was doing it right. And I guarantee when she gave the recipe to my mom it wasn’t with exact measurements, or how much it would actually make.

And as much as I love my mom, the shrimp cocktail hasn’t ever tasted the same. And if I’m being honest–even though I know how to make it now, I don’t know if I ever will. Because there is something about the huge recycled jar, and the Dixie cups and the ritz in the brown bowls.

Because sometimes, having family recipes aren’t for the remaking of them. It’s the knowledge that I could if I needed too. But mainly, it’s the five minutes on the phone with my mom telling me how to make it, it’s the memories of my grandma in her apron scooping it out in Dixie cups only after pulling out the big wooden box with the tiny forks in it.

Christmas for me, is about traditions that I didn’t realize were traditions until I missed out on them. Like my grandmas shrimp cocktail, or sitting on the puzzle piece couch with coffee, or drinking tangerine juice out of the metal glasses.

As I’ve moved out and now am spending my first Christmas with my own “family” and am starting new traditions with people in my life I find myself most grateful for all of the things that came before it.

I miss my Grandma Sorenson the most during Christmas. She passed away a little under three years ago. Every moment of Christmas makes me think of her and her house and her shrimp cocktail.

Like I said, I may never ever make this shrimp cocktail. But one day, when I have a husband and a family, and we have a Christmas party that night and I have no idea what to make, I might sift through the archives of my mind and mix this together and grab some ritz crackers on the way and think of my grandma Sue and Christmas morning spent on her blue and green puzzle piece couch.
Merry Christmas my friends. Take a moment to bookmark traditions that you’ve never deemed traditions and hold onto them. And maybe, just maybe, make your own.
The Recipe Series: an international wedding cake

December 5th, 2015

Edit

1 cup sugar. Half a cup of Greek yogurt. Half a cup of milk. 1 and a quarter cup of flour. Third a cup of oil. 1 and a quarter teaspoon of baking powder. A splash of vanilla. 20 minutes in the oven at 180 degrees Celsius makes one layer of a five layer cake. Repeat times 7 (because you need back up cakes)That is how you make the layers for a five layer wedding cake with one 9 inch round and a hit & miss oven in the south of Spain.

I remember when I got a random Facebook message from Whitney- a woman I had never met. She told me that Tiffany and Abby had told her that I made wedding cakes. (Fact: I had made one wedding cake) And she wanted to know if when I got to Spain I would like to make the wedding cake for Esther, Andrew and Mo’s daughter.

That wasn’t terrifying at all.

You see, Andrew is the founder for G42, the leadership academy I went to in Spain and at that point in my pre-Spain brain, I was scared of meeting him, because I had a feeling he would be a person who could look at me and cause me to cry with a glance (and I mean for the most part I was right except replace terror with lots of love). So, to make the wedding cake for his daughter was saying a lot about myself. But, of course, being the human that I am, I said yes.

I was only in Spain for a couple weeks when the weekend came to prep and make the cake. I was going to make all of the layers and freeze them the day before and dirty frost them. I had made one test layer prior to this day and it turned out well and got rave reviews, so I felt prepared the cake wouldn’t suck. And I googled how to fill the cake with jam without it toppling.

Baking is sacred to me. And if I don’t like how it turns out I normally will toss it. So, for the first time in my life, I started to fill the baking of this cake with prayer. Because I was an absolute nervous wreck. This cake was going to speak of me, or so I thought, what if it fell apart, or didn’t taste good. Most of the people I was now doing life with in Spain didn’t know me at all, didn’t know who I was or what I was capable of.

What I am trying to say is that I was practically paralyzed with fear that the cake would be a failure.

So I scooped and measured and stirred and cleaned and sang and face timed with friends. I coated the kitchen in flour and powdered sugar and got shaky from said powdered sugar and mass quantities of coffee. I cooled the cakes and wrapped them in Saran Wrap and stuck them in the freezer.

And in the midst of the stirring and measuring and baking, Andrew came by the house to drop off some wedding prep items and as I was the only one in the house he popped into the kitchen to talk to me. I couldn’t tell you what he said to me at this point, but the peace fell in that moment and I believe because of that, the peace fell into my baking.

I had two days of baking in the Mijouse kitchen to create a five layer cake with raspberry jam filling and buttercream frosting. I was mainly alone with some assistance from the flower girl and visits from my friends.

But what I learned from that moment was my stress translates into my baking and cooking. And instead of pouring stress into something I need to pour love and peace and goodness. So I wrote a prayer for Jason and Esther on the cardboard that I used as a cake board.

No one saw it but I knew the cake was sitting on a foundation that more then just a physical piece of cardboard.

In the end I was just plain honored to have made that cake.

I made that same cake two more times. Once halfway through my time for Kellen and Whitney’s one year wedding anniversary and once at the end for Andrew’s 70th birthday; because according to Mo–I made Esther’s cake in the beginning so I needed to make Andrew’s at the end of my time. And it’s funny as I look at the timeline. That I made that cake three different times in the span of six months and how I was a different human each time. And by the time I made Andrew’s cake, I was bursting with love for him and for that place and for that tribe. So I poured all of the love and honor and celebration (and tears) into that cake and it showed. I could tell the cake was different then any others I had made.

There’s a moment in my favorite cheesy dance movie CenterStage in which Charlie tells Jody to “Whatever you feel, just dance it”. I don’t want to bake or cook with whatever I feel. I want to get it all out, the stress, the nerves, the overload, the weight on my shoulders, with the chopping and the mixing and the cutting and the blending. But when I pour the layers into the cake pan, or simmer the soup on the oven all that needs to be left is the truth, the joy and the celebration.

Things fall flat or burn or fall apart when they come from a rocky foundation. But when things are filled with hope and joy and truth and celebration they aren’t wobbly. They are declarative and they are a resounding choice to not be controlled by what you feel. And a resounding choice to live above the fog.

Cooking and baking is about more then just the act of feeding and nourishing those I love. It’s about story and emotion and truth and revelation. This new blog post is the inaugural post for “the recipe series”. While right now it is just words and story on a screen my hope is that one day it will be a physical tangible cookbook. Filled with stories about making butternut squash Mac and cheese for my entire squad in Swaziland, or cooking over the fire at training camp or vegetarian April and poblano pepper and mango quesadillas or my new signature dish coconut sugar, gluten-free cheesecake.

So without further ado, let’s eat.
Today I choose.

November 26th, 2015

The last thing I want to be today is thankful. I’m rolling my eyes at the cliche’ of it all because on a day that is literally dubbed “Thanksgiving”, the thing to do would to be go against the grind and say that I’m not thankful.

I mean, I am thankful. It’s the machine that I operate out of on an (almost) daily basis. I grew up with a mom who, when I had a bad day, would tell me to write a grateful list. And for as many times as I rolled my eyes or got angry I did it. Because 9.5/10 times I have more to be thankful for then I don’t.

But if I am being honest, over the last three weeks I’ve just wanted to not care, I have just wanted to write emo-sounding song lyric Facebook statuses. I have wanted to curl up in a ball and zone out to some mind numbing show and shut off my brain and let the to-do lists and the emotions and the feelings I have overwhelm me.
I haven’t sat in front of anything long enough to write anything because I haven’t wanted to know what was going to come out.

I have wanted to call in sick even though I haven’t been sick.

I have wanted to not show up.

Good lord, I have wanted to have a bad day and not care who I effected in its wake.

But that’s not who I am.

Even this morning as I woke up all I wanted to do was stay in bed and be checked out of a day that is meant for telling others that you are thankful for them. I wanted to give in to the weight that has been perpetually on my shoulders for about three weeks and let it crush me for a moment.

But that’s not what I did.

I woke up at 8:30 and laid in bed texting some long messages to my hometeam because I didn’t know them three years ago and now don’t know what my life would look like without them.

And then I cried.

I wiped my tears, made coffee and chopped five pounds of potatoes to make some soup for people stopping by today.

And I cried some more.

I’ve been slowly texting people to speak words of gratitude. Today it’s coming out of a place of me choosing to show up for other people and remind them and show them that while being grateful is a feeling, it is also my choice to be grateful.

And when it comes down to it though it doesn’t FEEL easy it isn’t a hard choice. Showing up for fourteen one year olds on the daily FEELS hard. Showing up for the people around me, for the community, when it’s weighty and heavy and filled with stuff FEELS hard.

But the choosing is easy.

Because, man, those kiddos brighten my day when they say my name and come at me for a hug when I walk in the room and getting the chance to see them learn to walk and talk and smile and laugh is everything.

And the people in my life, as close as the room next to me and as far as across an ocean, are worth it for me to make that daily choice. Because seeing them be known, and achieve dreams, and have others see how freaking amazing there are is literally the greatest thing.

So, that is why I choose to be grateful today.

That is why I choose to be grateful everyday.

That is why I choose to show up. When it’s hard or easy and everything in between. That’s why I check my mood and choose to not leave a path of destruction behind me as best I can.

So I will choose.

{so today while I have so many different physical things to be thankful for; today I choose to be thankful for Kingsburg and Costa Mesa. For Bangkok and Chincha and Nsoko. For Mijas. And of course, for Bellingham.

They aren’t places in my mind.

They represent story and truth and moments that impacted my life.

Today I choose to be thankful for people.}
blank journal revolution

November 14th, 2015

By 8 every morning my kids have taken out the animals and Legos and dumped them out at least 3 times. By 8 every morning I have helped put the animals and Legos back in the basket at least three times.

Because if the toys are cluttering the room then we don’t have space to play, or in Teacher Meg speak:

“We need to pick up these toys and put them away so our friends can have safe bodies and We need to put these toys away so we can get something else out to play with!”

We can only get another toy out if we put another away.
We can only have something new come if we make space for what is to follow.

Goodness.

This past Sunday I yelled at God a lot. I yelled on behalf of myself, my roommate and our community.

{God can take my yelling and he did.}

And then Monday, with gritted teeth, I went and bought a new journal. I then took a page out of the Patty Reed book on declaring (that, of course, has a foreword from Tiffany Handley) and I wrote:

“I am here”.

And then I flipped through the glorious, beautiful blank pages.

I was introduced to the blank page when I went on the World Race and the unicorn that is Betsy Garmon doodled and painted her creativeness into my being.

To some the blank page is daunting. The emptiness, the space of it is scary. Having no structure, no lines, no one telling you what picture to color.

But may I change the way you see things?

When you have space it means you have cleaned up, set aside, organized, moved. You deliberately did something in order to have that space. You rolled up your sleeves and did some work. And sometimes, yes, the Legos get dumped out again, but you get quicker at putting them away and making space.

So, basically, a blank journal, is a place to make space for even more. It’s a space to put clutter and thoughts and things that don’t seem to fit anywhere, to make room for lovely and goodness and things that do make sense.

It’s a place to put all of those pieces together; the ones that don’t make sense and the ones that do and have them make sense together.

And then once they make sense, you have space to do more, be more because you have organized what feels like clutter in your mind.

We need space to have the more that God wants to put in our life.

And man, does he want to do that. The more is there for the grabbing, but we just need to make room for it. We need to roll up our sleeves and clean up the damn Legos one more time and put them back where they belong.

Because even the things that seem gritty and ugly have a place in our story. We just need to pick out what’s good and put it back on the shelf in a new box with a new name.

We need to make space to have space to have more.

So this is my challenge; join me in the blank journal revolution. Get your own space to clear out the mess to have more.

And if that seems scary, blank pages with no lines, holler at my roommate and I and we will pray some journal freedom into your life.

Space is a good thing guys, let’s own it.
In search of: a kitchen table

November 7th, 2015

If you are friends with my roommate and I here in Bellingham there is a really good chance that we have cooked or baked for you.

Like last Saturday I literally spent the whole day cooking. I started with omelettes for 7. We crammed in the kitchen, me making omelettes, Joanna making waffles, we surged the power with the microwave and heater going, we drank coffee from the carafe that I found at a thrift store and then parted ways for the day slowly with my friend Jonathan doing all the dishes for me as we watched the Office. I quickly moved into planning on cooking dinner for the triumvirate that often is gathered around our kitchen island. The three of us ate, drank wine and talked about all the things as per usual.

Cooking and baking and gathering is the tree of life for me, for us.

Sadly, we are missing something from our house that is incredibly important. Yes, there are certain pots and pans and a garlic press that we want. And yes, we need all the seasons of Dawson’s Creek (with the original music, because duh) and our creepy, clown cabinet only has like an 8th of a bottle of gin.

But, what we are lacking above all of that, is a kitchen table. We have a spot for it. A picture of our G42 class in the center of a wall awaiting a table under it. I will admit, we are pretty picky.

Because, it isn’t just a table to us. It’s so very much more than that.

It’s a place to land.

A table that’s a little weathered, that maybe has the faint ring of a wine glass, maybe some flowers placed upon it says something.

It says, “come and be.” Come however you are, with whatever day you have had, with whatever you need to shake off, pull up a chair and you can be fed, nourished and loved.

A table says you are not alone. You are cared for in the most basic of ways, which are the ways that truly matter.

We need that symbol to go along with the spirit already in our home. We gather around a lot of tables here in Bellingham. At restaurants, coffee shops, at the Liberty house.

We gather at our little yellow house too.

But we need that place to set our platters and lay our forks and clink our glasses.

So, without further ado:

IN SEARCH OF: a kitchen table.

Square, or rectangular with leaves that can expand the size, but can also be folded down to fit against our wall. Does not have to be brand-new, we value character and story in our furniture and our lives the same. Has to be able to withstand meals teaming with food and also lively games with beans and dice. Must be able to be the centerpiece for truth, life and laughter. Must be ok with tears and yelling. Needs to be a table that can double as a place for creativity. Where dreams can be dreamt and plans can be made and vision can be established.
And without a doubt, must be a place to gather, a soft place to a land and an easy place to take off from and come back too.

And must be a place to live from.
The yellow house in Bellingham is searching for a table; can you help us?
I don’t always speak.

November 1st, 2015

I don’t always write what I feel I should. {I mean, I also don’t always say what I should}

This is for a lot of reasons. Sometimes it’s because I don’t think that I can adequately explain why something is important, or why I believe what I believe with written words or with out specific questions. I don’t always write about revelations and triumphs in my life because they aren’t for everyone to hear, they are sometimes for me, sometimes for my home team and those like them and sometimes for the people who are in authority over me.

I also don’t always write what I want to write because to me words are some of most powerful weapons we have. And if I put it on paper for others to read it makes it real, more vulnerable and way, way more out there.

My brain is currently full of a lot of incomplete sentences. The last four months have felt like a lot and nothing at all. I find myself apart of a place, a family, a community, a home, a table that means so much to me. That I trust. It’s all very, very new to me; this trust.

{{TRUST: (n/v) the firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something.
–a hope//expectation–to have faith or confidence}}

Trust is a weighty word. Have you ever truly thought of that? We are a people who throw words out like they are free; trust, love, safe. We can easily open ourselves up for hurt by using those words to quickly or not quickly enough.

Those are the words we stop ourselves from using.

But what about words like dumb, stupid, fat, ugly, hopeless?

I went through a long road of recognizing that words and phrases that had been spoken over me needed to be shaken off and thrown away. There were a lot of them and some of them still effect me and still cause me to be put in a place that is not the most fun.

Have you ever thought about that silly little rhyme “stick and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me”? And yet we use words to instill in our loved ones how much we love them, care for them, and are there for them. So why wouldn’t the opposite side of those words hurt as much as the positive ones help?

As you can tell the power of words has been mulling around in my brain as prophecy and words of encouragement and of course, speaking to sweet one year olds all day and instilling vocabulary, positivity and safety through my voice.

I have always known the importance of words and for the last year, since a certain Irishman rattled some truth into my being, realized that I have powerful, rock-breaking words inside me.

I haven’t been writing a lot lately. And this whole time I’ve thought it’s because I haven’t had the words, but in reality I have had too many swimming through my brain.

And goodness, that’s ok.

I’m getting over not writing what I think I shouldn’t write. My discernment is moving and broadening and the words that hurt me are fading faster then they had before.

All this to say is this: watch this space for more.

The more is coming and it’s coming with words.
100 days home

October 18th, 2015

100 days ago this weekend I did one of the weirdest, maybe even craziest things I have ever done. I got into a car with someone whom I had never actually met, and drove with him to a city I had never been to, to an apartment I was renting that I had never set foot in with a friend with whom I had actually never technically lived with.

I own my crazy well.

In 100 days I’ve made the city of Bellingham a home. Something that’s mine and mine alone. It isn’t the place I grew up, or where my family is from or the area I went to college in.
It’s just my home.

The last 100 days have been filled with a lot. A lot of laughter, crying, dancing in the hallway. Beer, prayer, time at church and time around tables. It’s been filled with snuggling kids to sleep everyday and learning a new language of communicating with tiny humans that I hadn’t really used before.

It’s been filled with choosing to live out of who I have learned I am.

So because of that I am going to make a lis. And as an homage to my most favorite late talk show host ever, David Letterman, here is a top ten of ten words about my first 100 days in the wacky city named Bellingham.

{but first, for those that just want the bluf; the bottom line up front: I not only love everyone in my path here in Bellingham but I am also so very loved here in Bellingham. And that my friends changes everything.}

1. LIVE (from the yellow house) I live in the best house with the best roommate. I met Patty Reed 3 years ago this week at World Race Training Camp. She was my seat buddy on most flights and other then that we never really chatted. She has become, in the last year and a half, one of the most treasured friends in my life. She speaks truth to me and helps me off ledges and doesn’t bat an eye when I stomp my feet. She’s one of the best people I know. She’s my home team and literally apart of every named group text on my phone and I am utterly grateful to live in this yellow house with her.

2. HAPPINESS: (In no particular order)Aslan Fryday //co-op hippie cookies//NYP brunches//NYP everything//avellino Fantasia// lettered streets// rocket donuts// beer beer beer//coffee coffee coffee
3. WORK: For those of you who don’t know: I’m the lead teacher in a one year old classroom. I got the job two days after I arrived. I normally have 14 kids and two assistants and a whole lot of boogers and conversations about giving your friends space. But I also have dance parties at snack with co-workers to not only entertain the children but also to keep us sane and donuts when we take the kids on walks. I am learning that I have more knowledge than I thought. And I treasure moments with these tiny humans each day.

4. COLD: Mom you will soon be able to officially ask me if I am warm enough and know it’s not an illegitimate question.
5. CHURCH. I don’t know how to describe it really. Wait no, I do. ALIVE. That’s the only word for the church family I am apart of: alive. It’s been since high school where I attended a church where I felt known and seen like I do here. Where I have felt pushed and challenged and changed in the most lovely, gritty ways. I knew I was coming into something safe when I set foot in the church for the first time. But to come somewhere that feels like a continuation rather than something new is a feeling I can’t describe super well but that’s what it is. And that’s because it wasn’t starting over coming here.

6. LOVELY: one of the loveliest moments in our home has been when Andrew and Mo Shearman (founders of G42) were in town to preach at our church and we got to host them and a crew of our friends for lunch. I don’t know how to put to words the meaning behind having Andrew stand in my house and declare over it and speak in tongues and break bread at our table. It was a stacking stone moment. A memory to remember forever. To cherish. We have had those moments in so many different instances here from a road trip to Winthrop, to girls nights with Yessina, to afternoons that turned to evenings and coffee dates that turned to dinner.

7. COMMUNITY (that cliche c word) Like I said; I got picked up 100 days ago by someone I’d never actually met. Bellingham and A life is currently the church/city with the most g42 alum and also just some really awesome other people. There are so many people I can tell you about, but just know that the people who reside in the third row {center right} are some of the weirdest, wackiest people I know and I am so glad I get to sit around tables with them.

8. DREAMS. Since moving here I have realized that these dreams and passions and visions and hopes that I’ve carried so long are so very small compared to what I could do and accomplish. {which leads to…}

9. MORE. I thought I had met more before. I had but what I didn’t realize is that more gets even more then it was before. Even just today in church the reminder that I am the more. The hope. The life. And that I have great words and truth and voice inside me. This is another blog, another topic, but it’s building and growing and I am choosing to believe.

10. And one last word: TRIUMVIRATE. (Words also applicaple: sanity, laughter, truth, life, surprising and random.)

If you made it through this whole list, thank you. I am going to pick up my pen more and write the things in my mind and heart and the truth being pulled out of me daily. For your eyes too. I’m unlocking the more and the life and the wisdom daily and choosing to go forth knowing that I am meant for more.
{and yes, California, I do miss you and your people. You are so apart of the here it’s ridiculous}